Without Walls

New scenes enthrall me. The art of story through lens, through language, through the sequence of human experience captivate me.Off the shoulders of another trip, the cinema of her effervescent beauty & injuries still beckon my conscience. The island of Puerto Rico still stands erect like a flag half staff, like the hills that haven't lost their incline.So many images, happenstances, moments. Yet, I can handpick a few that preached full on sermons to me without a single syllable uttered.We were in Catano. A town severely ravaged by the forced entry of Maria. It felt like we were on the set of a movie that revolves around a storm that desolated towns and evacuated people. This time, the set was not fiction. The mayor's office took us on a tour, highlighting her damage, wiping tears of disdain and sudden bouts of disillusionment.The roads were narrow and winding, locals peering into our vehicle, the orange heat beating on the glass. We quickly wisp by it, but somehow, my pupils sucked in the sketch.And there she was. Pulling on my shirt and my soul. A Church building that had been almost annihilated by the bully shoves and thrusts of the storm.Without walls.Pews ripped from hinges.Ceiling must've flew like a Genie's carpet.Bellows of hymns and prayers soaked in the leftover wood.Fixated.Responsive.Mesmerized.We went back the next day to serve the school that we wanted to partner with. We cleaned out a classroom. Made connections. Gave a teacher gift. Project accomplished.Then we wandered again. Spilling into town like ants, crawling around to be among."There it is. The Church," Monica mentioned."Stop the car, I need to get this shot," I replied.I dashed out the vehicle like something was running from me, and I had to catch it.I ascended, and there she was. A Church without walls. Abandoned. Badly beaten. Uninhabitable. Dangerous to dwell in. In bad condition. Former members disperse, needing to seek religious refuge somewhere else. Yet, the shell in tact. Holy and sacred vibes still singing.Somehow, I felt the same. In her same condition. My kindred spirit.I started snapping shot after shot on my iPhone. My mouth drying and eyes swelling at the symbolism.Then. He. Spoke."Will you still BE the Church when the walls crumble down? Will you still BE the Church when the building is no more?"I was in public, so I had to maintain composure. I wanted to lay down. Weep. Beat the floor. Self-loathe.Through my perched lips, I managed to utter my word for the year: "Yes."Peering in from the on-look of an outsider, that image matched the description, to the letter, of my spiritual condition.Tattered.Worn.Uninhabitable.But still recognizable.Walls blown open to signify the nations.Ceiling yanked out to symbolize heaven's access.Transforming my perception of the Church with how different she appeared.New scenes enthrall me. The art of story through lens, through language, through the sequence of human experience captivate me.But this one put a demand on me.Without walls. I am without walls.And I have to remain standing.